


Forever Isn't For Everyone (Is Forever For You?)

by platonico



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Abu Dhabi Grand Prix 2020, Angst, Clingy Charles, Crying, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, I Tried, Inspired by Poetry, Kissing, M/M, Sex, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-10
Updated: 2021-03-10
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:07:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,164
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29959353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonico/pseuds/platonico
Summary: It’s their last day together. Charles doesn’t know if he can do it.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Sebastian Vettel
Comments: 4
Kudos: 54





	Forever Isn't For Everyone (Is Forever For You?)

**Author's Note:**

> I don’t know what has got into me, but I need to write this and expel it from my system. I’m sorry in advance for the pain.
> 
> All the lines in the brackets are taken from different Richard Siken poems because I’m a sucker for him, if you haven’t figured it out already. It’s my first sebchal fic so please be kind :’)
> 
> With love,  
> N.

Abu Dhabi, 2020

The restaurant is fancy. Suitable, in a way, if it wasn’t for the reason they are here. The atmosphere is so full of whispered goodbyes and lost moments that Charles feels already out of place, like a piece of puzzle that doesn’t fit in the bigger picture. But he smiles. He smiles and tries to eat the raw fish despite the lump growing in his throat every time he speaks.

_(Here you are in the wrong house, feeding the wrong dog.)_

His suit is tight, the collar of the shirt threatening to choke him, and he knows he shouldn’t have. _It’ll be something informal,_ Silvia has said, but he didn’t listen. He needed to dress up; he needs to show his gratitude and his respect and his recognition and his—

He takes another bite of salmon, and when Xavier asks him if he is enjoying the night he swallows against the taste of bitter that invades his mouth. He chats away the raw feeling of sandpaper his tongue has gained, and he smiles again — _he smiles —_ and says _of course, and you?_

_(Everything is happening at the wrong end of a very long tunnel.)_

The atmosphere get lighter as the dinner goes on, more cheery even, and everyone is standing up, talking and clasping shoulders, and Charles is the only one who remains seated at the head of the table, cutting the slice of the cake with surgical precision. He counts down the chews he needs to make the moment last longer, bigger, excessive.

He focuses on the piano line he hears in the background, like a humming that accompanies the conversations going on all around the place. He starts to mindlessly play the chords on the white fabric of the tablecloth, and when the realisation hits he has an epiphany. His eyes shoot up from the plate like a magnet being drawn by his opposite. _Game recognizing game,_ he thinks.

Sebastian is talking briskly with one of his engineers, and Charles can’t really understand what they are saying, they are too far, but he swears he can see the German stuttering for a moment and then meeting his gaze.

The eye contact lasts for a millisecond, like a brief glitch in a simulation, and Sebastian returns to his exchange of big laughs and heavy grins like nothing has happened in the first place.

_(Here is the repeated image of the lover destroyed.)_

Charles grips onto the tiny fork he is holding, and takes all his willpower not to stab it in the table (or his heart for that matter).

He has arrived at the crust of the pie by now, and he lets out his frustration by tearing the dough apart in endless crumbs, so time stretches a little more and he can eat it without the fear of everything ending too fast. He would lick the plate from the icing too, if he needs.

It’s like his limbs are slowly falling apart, and the chair is the only thing holding them together. If he stands up he is sure he will crumble on the floor like a ragdoll, and he will need someone to make his back and his head upright again.

There is a patch of warmth at some point of his process of destroying the cake, and it radiates on his right shoulder, seeping through the layers of his jacket, his shirt, his undershirt, his skin, and his heart.

He looks up even if he already knows everything. The piano mixes with the rush of blood that floods his ears.

“Hey,” Sebastian addresses him, the grip on his shoulder tightening, and Charles feels like he will collapse if he doesn’t cling onto that.

“Had a good night?” the Monegasque replies, and shoves him the same fake smile he is reserving to everyone tonight (he knows Sebastian doesn’t deserve it — doesn’t deserve him — _but still_ ).

“Of course,” the German returns it kindly, like he could lighten up the whole place only with his lips, “Do you mind if we talk on the balcony?”

_(Inside your head the sound of glass, a car crash sound as the trucks roll over and explode in slow motion.)_

Charles’ world turns upside-down at that, and his mouth remains still, incapable of articulating words. He clears his voice to fight the lump that it’s threatening to jump out of his throat in a matter of seconds.

“I—,” he stammers and god, _get a grip would you_ , his mind beseeches. “The cake,” he finally says, and it sounds so incredibly childish out loud.

Sebastian laughs softly. He stares at the crumbs on his plate. “Well, of what remains of it, we should say.”

Charles chuckles hysterically in response, and drops his eyes at the mess he created on the white dish, because he can’t stand the piercing blue eyes reading him like an open book (but that’s what he always has been for Sebastian, hasn’t he?).

The clutch at his shoulder never stops. “Humour me?” the German pushes again, and he takes the metallic fork from Charles’ hand and lays it on the tablecloth. Their fingertips brush in the making and Charles feels on fire.

_(Love always wakes the dragon and suddenly_

_flames everywhere.)_

“Sure,” he says, the chair scraping on the floor when he stands up, making him flinch. He expects people turning around, music stopping and silence falling in the room like in one of those movies, because he is sure the sound was louder than intended, but nothing of the above happens.

Maybe it’s just him.

“Meet me outside, okay?” Sebastian shakes him out of his trance, and he squeezes his arm before getting lost in the back of the restaurant. Charles doesn’t even have time to say _I don’t know if I can do it_.

His feet drag him over the terrace on autopilot, and he shakes hands and greets people along the way without realising. It’s Silvia who notices the tremor in his voice though.

“You okay?” she says briefly, almost hushed, and she reaches for his hand for a light squeeze. He loves how she sounds so caring, and loving and careful with him. She reminds of his mother sometimes.

“Always,” he returns with thinned lips, and hopes that the desperation intertwining with the golden flecks of his eyes don’t give him away.

She just clasps his hand in response and returns with the rest of the team in silent compliance.

_(Here are the illuminated cities at the centre of me, and here is the centre of me, which is a lake,_

_which is a well that we can drink from,_

_but I can’t go through with it.)_

The lights of the skyscrapers twinkle back at him when he stretches over the railing of the balcony and the wind ruffles his hair. He rolls his shoulders in attempt of making the tension leave his limbs, but he can’t, he’s scared, and his mind won’t give him peace before tomorrow.

The first buttons of his shirt loosen easily under his shaking fingers, because he can’t breathe all of a sudden and he needs the cold air of December to fill his lungs like water for withered flowers.

The long exhale that follows his movement loses between the waves that roar on the shore underneath him, and he feels steadier on his legs.

Then there is a long shadow throwing across the pavement beside his, and he turns around in time to see Sebastian coming in his direction. _He looks like a saint_ , he thinks. Pervaded by light like something holy.

The German leaves the sliding door open behind him, and Charles is right away to close it — anything to not face the other one, _please, he isn’t ready_ — but then Sebastian takes his wrist and guides him afar from the entrance, in that part of the balcony merely dimmed by the inner lights of the restaurant.

He almost staggers on his feet at the sudden pull, and when he steadies himself he sees nothing but dark, and Sebastian’s white teeth flashing in the void of the night.

_(You’re trying not to tell him that you love him, and you’re trying to choke down the feeling, and you’re trembling)_

“Easy,” Sebastian chuckles, and he cradles his cheek while stroking the stubble growing there. If Charles closes his eyes he can still hear people roaring around him, and the softness of Sebastian’s glove right over his flushed skin that day in Bahrain, almost one year ago.

_(But then he reaches over and he touches you,_ _like a prayer for which no word exists.)_

Charles encircles the German’s wrist in return, making the hand linger on his face as long as he can, right where it belongs. He tilts his head and kisses Sebastian’s palm with a shivering breath escaping from his lips.

“I have a surprise for you,” Sebastian speaks, and he stops brushing his cheek waiting for something to come. He looks away in an undefined spot behind them.

“What’s it?” Charles asks eager, ready to do everything to make this last in eternity, but then he hears it, too.

The strings of notes are faint under the incessant blabbering of people in the restaurant, but if he strains his ears enough he can recognize the song playing.

“But the pianist played it before,” he states and it’s not like he is complaining, he is not, but he needs to know if this is real, he needs to know if he is dreaming, if he—

“Yeah, but I asked him a favour,” Sebastian replies, “It’s our song, after all, no?”

Charles is glad that the German decides in that moment to grasp at his waist and make him come closer to his body, because his legs feel suddenly like jelly and if Sebastian doesn’t hold him he will probably break down like a teacup against the hard floor.

It’s not like it’s _their_ song; they are not that— they are not, I mean— anyway.

It just happened that one afternoon they were in the car and Charles has turned on the radio and he caught this song he has never heard of, and of course Sebastian knew it.

“It has a beautiful piano line,” Charles has said, for which the German replied, “You can learn it and dedicate it to you girlfriend. It’s a very famous love song from the eighties,” like he didn’t then proceed to sing it with the most bashful grin on his lips and looking at Charles from the reflection of the window.

The Monegasque had smiled at that, and tried to focus on the road instead of Sebastian’s hand trailing up and down his thigh.

He learnt the song on the piano once arrived home, but he didn’t certainly thought of Charlotte when he was whispering the words under his breath.

_(Here is the part where everyone was happy all the time and we were all_ _forgiven.)_

They sway back and forth in the tarnished light that comes from inside, following the music, and Charles hangs his arm around Sebastian’s neck in a vice grip. The German whispers the words in his ear like a prayer, and he doesn’t know how much he can go on like this.

“Everything I do, darling,” Sebastian sing-songs, “and we’ll see it through.”

When the last note hits, people inside explode in a resounding applaud that muffle the sobs that are leaving Charles’ mouth, and his legs betray him right in that instant.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Sebastian tries to shush him, and he holds him up the best way he can. Charles is taller and bulkier than him, but he feels small between his hands, like a precious thing.

“Seb, please— _Seb_ ,” he cries, but his invocations are empty and there is no god who can fulfil his wishes.

“I’m here, stop it, I’m here.”

_(I never liked that ending either.)_

Charles wants to scream, because _how can he_ — how can he promise something this big, this presumptuous, when he knows he can’t.

“No, no, it’s not true, you know it— it’s not,” he shakes his head in the crook of Sebastian’s shoulder and he whines like a child after waking up from a nightmare. Except he won’t wake up this time.

“Sweetheart, we’ve talked about this, I’ll be here, I promise. You can always come to me if you need me,” the German reassures him, but Charles sounds like a broken record and he weeps and weeps until the waterfall from under his eyes doesn’t close.

“But you won’t— you won’t be _here_ , and I need— I need you to—.”

_(You said I could have anything I wanted, but I_

_just couldn’t say it out loud.)_

He takes Sebastian’s face between his hands, and kisses him with all the delicacy he can found at the pit of his stomach, even if his body is running on adrenaline and he feels ready to burst into the ground like lighting. But he needs him to know— he needs him to know how he feels, and this is the only way he can do it.

Sebastian lets him open his mouth and submits at his touch like moulding wax.

“Okay?” the Monegasque asks when they pull apart, and he feels so empty and full at the same time by this thing— this—

He hopes Sebastian understands.

_(Love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love._

_It’s like a religion. It’s terrifying.)_

The German nods in return and Charles bursts into tears for the burden finally lifting from his heart.

“I know, I know, I’ve always knew. It’s okay, we’re okay,” Sebastian says like a litany, and they breathe together with their foreheads touching, recalibrating with each other, with their surroundings, with the world’s axis.

It’s already late — Charles knows it even if he doesn’t look at his watch — because people’s chats are becoming fewer and fewer inside the building, and the chills running through his spine are definitely not caused by Sebastian’s presence. The wind blows harshly and he cuddles against his friend’s side in search of heat.

“We should go,” Sebastian says at some point, but he too remains there, hugging Charles closer and stroking his back to warm him up.

“Please, just a little bit more,” he whimpers and he knows he sounds needy and clingy, but god, leave him in peace, he is breaking down and no one will pick up the pieces afterwards.

“Okay,” the other acquiesces, and holds him tighter. Charles knows this can’t last forever — that he needs to wake up — but he is trying to imprint in the back of his head the way Sebastian’s hands are gripping onto his shoulders, the aroma of his aftershave, his cologne, how his lips feel against his temple, and the sounding of his heart below his ear. He can’t just slip away.

They cling onto each other like god is making them a favour and is purposefully extending the space between one second and the next, so they can postpone reality just a little bit longer.

_(I had a dream about you. We were in the gold room where everyone finally gets what they want.)_

They break apart when he hears footsteps approaching, or well, Sebastian makes them do it. Charles was sure they were just the beats of his heart.

The German wipes quickly away the tear streaks from his cheeks and then he remerges on the lightened side of the balcony before him, so Charles can put himself together in the meantime (he will never be able to, but he makes an effort).

For his own relief, it’s just Silvia telling them that the car is waiting to go back at the hotel, and Charles can see from where he is standing how Sebastian says a little thank you to her and then strides inside before the woman can read more that she has already done in the furrowed lineaments of his face.

He gets out from the dark side of the terrace a moment after, and hopes that the glow of the moon won’t make his red eyes stand out more than it should.

Silvia doesn’t say anything at the sagged shoulders he carries himself on, but lays a reassuring hand in the small of his back to guide him until they reach the parking lot. He feels drunk without having even touched an ounce of alcohol.

The trip to the hotel passes so immensely slow that he dozes off for the entire time, and he is woken up by Sebastian’s hand shaking his arm.

He rubs his eyes like a child, and doesn’t even care when he extends his hand in a grabby movement and the German takes it without afterthoughts. It’s not like Silvia will say something about it.

He shakes off the haziness behind the closed doors of the elevator, but his hand won’t stop clasping at Sebastian’s. He craves contact like a touch-starved cat.

“Here you go,” Sebastian says when they reach the step of Charles’ door, but the Monegasque talks before the German can leave him behind, broken-hearted.

“Come inside,” he rushes desperately, and his words are high pitched by the fear of rejection, because he is not ready to let go. Not now, not never.

_(So maybe I wanted to give you something more than a catalogue of non-definitive acts,_

_something other than the desperation.)_

“Charles,” Sebastian replies almost petulant, because that’s the tone he needs to use. It’s like a teacher scolding his student.

“We don’t need— we don’t. Just for the last time, yeah? Please.”

He almost cringes at the meekness with which he says it, at the way the tears well up in his eyes at the sole thought of sleeping alone tonight.

But why can’t Sebastian understand how this is even bigger and grander and stronger than him? He can’t control it.

The German sighs in resignation and Charles fumbles with his key card with such a fuss that Sebastian needs to remind him to breathe.

He plumps down on the mattress with a loud sigh, and his fingers tremble with exhaustion and weariness against the buttons of his shirt.

“Let me do it,” Sebastian says, crouching between his legs. He unbuttons the shirt with a leisurely pace, a mechanic movement that repeats itself until the last buttonhole, but then he notices a little droplet wetting his knuckles.

“Oh, Charles,” he whispers and he looks up to meet the Monegasque, but his stare remains glued to the floor and the tears keep falling on the carpeting. Sebastian nestles his face between his hands.

“Look at me,” he speaks with a stern tone, but Charles just shakes his head and squints his eyes shut.

“I’m still here, and I won’t leave you. I promised, remember? And you know I don’t break my promises.”

 _Liar, liar, liar,_ Charles wants to spit right into his face. _You’ll be gone before the sun rises, and we both know it._

_(More love streaming out the wrong way,_

_and I don’t want to be the kind that says the wrong way._

_But it doesn’t work, these erasures, this constant refolding of the pleats.)_

Sebastian kisses him with the same tenderness and novelty that he used the first time their lips touched, and Charles gives up his stubbornness and finds himself thirsty and hungry.

The tears keep rolling down his face though, and he mumbles a tales of _sorry_ between one kiss and the other that they wear out Sebastian’s ears.

“Stop this nonsense,” the German hushes, and he stops a moment to finally meet Charles’ eyes. The Monegasque bites his lip to shove down the umpteenth sorry that would escape from his mouth otherwise.

_(G_ _reen eyes flecked with yellow, dried leaves on the surface of a pool._

_You could drown in those eyes, I said_ _.)_

“Let’s lay down,” Sebastian suggests, and pushes him against the mattress with a grip on his shoulder that says _let me take care of you._

“Seb— we don’t— I, I mean,” Charles stutters but he is silenced again by the pomegranate lips of the other.

“I’m here, aren’t I?” he trails kisses down to his chest, and he rearranges his limbs like a boy would do with the twigs he has found in the forest. Careful and precise.

“Okay?” Sebastian asks from his lap, and the elastic band of Charles’ boxers is the only limit that divides their flesh from touching. This is where their evening split up.

“Just go slow,” he mutters and god he feels like an eighteen-year-old boy, but it’s been a long time and he just wants Sebastian to crawl under his second skin to make him relive everything they have missed out.

His heart jumps at his throat the moment he slides in, and it’s not— it’s not like he doesn’t know how it feels, but it’s just—

He feels whole, and then total and complete and entire and he could go on and on for hours, because every time something new adds up to the list.

_(I’ve been in your body and it’s like a carnival ride.)_

Sebastian kisses his lips full, but it tastes different. Their tongues always become knives in situations like these, but now he is gentler, as Charles could break like porcelain under his touch.

It feels more intimate in a way, and he knows exactly why Sebastian is doing it, so he scratches his back as an act of spite. The German lets him do it without a reprimand and _no no no_ , Charles thinks. _It shouldn’t be like this._

The pace they follow is slow and steady and he comes with a moan that rips the rhythmic cycle of their huffed breaths, and the feeling of hollowness follows right after.

_(You could drown in those eyes, I said,_

_so it’s summer,_ _so it’s suicide,_

_so we’re helpless in sleep and struggling at the bottom of the pool.)_

Sebastian is already up and returning from the bathroom with a wet cloth, and Charles strokes his beard while he cleans his chest from the white come.

“Are you good?” the German asks him with a kiss on his forehead. Charles keeps the laugh that is bubbling in his chest from forming into his lips — Sebastian doesn’t need his brattiness tonight — because yes, he feels good, but no, it won’t last more than a blink of an eye.

He keeps stroking the German’s cheek with a bleary stare and his hands twitching between the sheets.

_(You wanted happiness, I can't blame you for that,_

_and maybe a mouth sounds idiotic when it blathers on about joy but tell me you love this, tell me you're not miserable.)_

“I’m happy for you,” he deadpans instead. He realises he has never said it to Sebastian since he announced his departure from his childhood dream. He feels like he should. “I know it’s hard, but— but I’m happy.”

He chokes down the tears that are threatening to resurface at the corners of his eyes, and he draws Sebastian closer to kisses him for what he feels like the last time.

“It means the world to me,” the Germans says and Charles is ready to reply to that, because Sebastian doesn’t deserve him, Sebastian is too sacred to fall for his scarred soul, Sebastian—

The German shuts him up with another kiss and okay, maybe he can uncorrupt himself in this way, letting the other one craving his body until a creak of light comes out from the crevices of his flesh.

_(The light is no mystery,_

_the mystery is that there is something to keep the light_

_from passing through.)_

“It’s late, we need to sleep,” Sebastian breaks the silence, but Charles remains there with his hands immersed in the blonde curls and looks at him. He loves how he pronounced that _we_ like something it would last in time.

He just nods in reply and turns his back from Sebastian. “Can you hold me?” he whispers and it’s so feeble he hopes the German has heard. He is glad the other can’t see his face growing hot in fluster.

It’s embarrassing even for him, really, to say it out loud, but he needs Sebastian to understand how much he needs it, how much he needs to treasure these touches and moments so he can replay them in the back of his head when there won’t be anymore.

They move almost in sync, the German sliding his arm around his waist and driving him closer — so their bodies can touch from chest to toes in the hope to become one — and Charles takes his hand and places it over his heart. He can feel Sebastian’s breath tickling the back of his neck, and Charles exhales loudly.

 _This doesn’t look much different from home_ , he thinks, and then falls in a dreamless sleep until the following morning.

_(We are all going forward, there is no going back.)_

**Author's Note:**

> I know it sounds twisted but I had so much fun writing this. I love experimenting with poetry and ampollous metaphors. 
> 
> The song Seb and Charles dance to is (Everything I Do) I Do It for You by Brian Adams if you want to check it out.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading, remember to leave kudos, comments and bookmarks <3\. <3  
> You can find my tumblr [here.](https://vershstappen.tumblr.com/)  
> 


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